The Beggar by Pat O'Regan

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Image by DreamStudio

The Beggar

I had never been to an Army reunion, and I didn’t mean to start. But two old Army buddies, Ray and Sam, talked me into it. So now I have a flight to Jackson, MS, where the Reunion will be held, a room in a motel there, and three weeks to think about it before I go. Therein lies the problem – thinking.

Old memories of Vietnam War Days had always been a companion, but this Reunion is stirring them up. Now my old friend Bill can’t rest peacefully. He’s the one guy I would have been in touch with these many years since he was killed in the war. He fell next to me, stitched from navel to face by automatic weapons fire. What a friend he would have been and what a father – he was engaged. And Lt. Jacobs… What a career he would have had in the Army. This West Point man would have ended up a general – no question. But, in his fighting spirit, he could not leave the enemy bunker complex. He and three other guys just had to check out the area. The other three made it back. And what about me? Am I evil? I did booby-trap with grenades, two enemy bodies. I hadn’t thought of that in years. It’s a war crime! Thanks, Ray and Sam. Thank the Lord I didn’t kill the POW, unarmed and trying, with his arms in the air, to surrender to me. Could I have lived with the memory of having killed him? I certainly wouldn’t have gone to a reunion.

More and more, I dreaded this gathering of soldiers and spouses as the day of departure drew nearer. On the day of the flight, with just two or three hours of sleep, I woke up carrying a mental burden I couldn’t shake. I had to be at the airport early. One goes through the motions. So I was packed and ready to go when the cab showed up. Then the airports, the flights, first to Houston, then to Jackson, get the rental car, and, sunk in my memories, just like that, like it or not, I was standing in the lobby of the motel where the Reunion attendees gathered. Now what?

One gets caught up in the chatter and friendliness. How could I brood on the past when every way I turned, someone was talking my ear off? Ray and Sam are paragons of chatter. After a time, I had to get away. I used the excuse that I needed to practice with my rental car. I told them I’d be right back after I took the vehicle for a spin. As a matter of fact, I did need to learn how to drive it. The shifting was new-fangled. I drive an older car with a standard hand-shift. This one had a small device that flipped back and forth between gears. I needed some practice. So I found a quiet road, parked, and shifted back and forth between the gears. After a time, a car parked next to me, and I stayed there as I practiced. It was a woman driver. I thought she wondered if I was stranded. I continued to practice until I finally drove on. Then I saw that she turned into the driveway to a business I had been blocking. I felt awful, but what could I do? I headed straight back to the Reunion.

I was out of my funk when we set off for dinner at a wonderful Mexican restaurant that evening. But there are always issues, of course. At dinner that night, I got into a spirited conversation with the wife of one of the guys from my old unit. Apparently, this was getting to be too much for her husband to bear. So, sitting between us, he pointedly leaned forward far enough to block off and stop the chatter between the two of us. Perhaps it was a conversation unlike any she had had in a long time. Later that night, there was a meeting to discuss the events of the day. I decided to go to bed with a good book instead.

That night, thoughts of the war, especially Bill and the Lt., came back to me more and more. I tried to read, take a walk outside, and lift weights in the exercise room. Nothing seemed to help. I slept fitfully.

As I might have known, at breakfast in the morning, one of the ladies wanted to know why I wasn’t at the meeting the night before. I would have thought no one would notice my absence. One can’t win. After breakfast, we headed off for a tour of historic Ft. Shelby, which is an hour’s drive west, near the Mississippi River. After that, having two hours before supper for myself, I drove off alone. In this meander, I became comfortable with the car, and I also found the Natchez Trace – a lovely stretch of two-lane Southern highway, hemmed in by pine and hardwood forest, at every turn evoking thoughts of Gone with the Wind. With some difficulty – there are no turnarounds on the Natchez Trace – I finally got turned around. I had to hurry to get back to the motel in time for the drive to a seafood restaurant for supper. I just made it.

After dinner that night in my room, I knew I had to get away for a time. The old memories were obsessing me. Bill and the Lt. inhabited my mind, now along with another guy I knew whom I had not thought of for years. His name was Jason, and he was killed, blown up by his own grenade in a firefight. I only knew Jason because everyone knew him. He was the very model of good-natured friendliness. He just didn’t throw the grenade in time. I also recalled, for the first time in many years, almost killing one of our own guys when checking out the area after a firefight. He was coming at me through the brush, and I thought he was an enemy soldier. I aimed my M-16 at him and took up the slack on the trigger, saying to myself, “Wait, wait, wait…” Then he came into sight. It was Dave. The blood drained from my face, and I almost collapsed. With an ounce more pressure on the trigger… How could I have lived with that? I knew I had to get away the next day, at least for a while.

I had missed the meeting again that night. The next morning, sure enough, Jean, Sam’s wife, asked if I would be there for the dinner that evening. It was the going-away celebration; we would be breaking up the following morning. I assured her I would be there. After breakfast, we headed to the Mississippi River's Vicksburg Battlefield. That tour took much of the day, but we got back with a couple of hours before gathering for supper. I had to get away for a time. I got in the rental car, practiced shifting in the lot a bit, and set off, heading for the Natchez Trace.

The setting again carried me away. The ugliness of war slipped from my attention as I fled along the two-line highway through the embracing Southern forest at the required leisurely speed. The beauty of the sylvan setting and the peacefulness of the delightful foliage sank into my soul. Long-leaf pines, bare two-thirds to the top, along with loblolly and slash pines, seemed to stand guard for oaks, maples, and sweetgums. “This could be my vacation,” I thought. I drove for an hour before I realized I would need to fill the rental car with gas and was thirsty. Following signs, I came to a town called Port Gibson and pulled into a quick stop.

After getting gas, I went inside for a bottle of water. Just to give the place some business, I picked up two or three other items and took them to the counter. The clerk was very friendly, but even he could not get through the crust that had formed over my soul. I headed back to the car, determined to go somewhere, though I wasn’t sure where. I just wanted to move on.

“Say, there, Sir, maybe you all can help me,” I heard a voice, deep and ragged, say.

“What’s that?” I asked, turning to see a tall, thin man of indeterminate age; probably a lot younger than he looked, but he looked all of seventy-five. His face was very haggard. His eyes were beacons of weariness, fright, and fatigue. He held his hands by his mouth as if apologizing for his very words. I regarded him steadily.

“I need some money for something to eat,” he said.

“Wait there, please,” I said, going on to the car. I wanted to set the bag of foodstuff aside and take a second to clear my head. “How much should I give this guy?” I thought. “Get a grip. I can’t support him.” I took out enough for a hearty meal and went back to him. “Here, Sir,” I said, pressing two bills into his hand. “Thank ya,” he said. “If ever I can help…” I turned away, saying, “Thank you. God bless you.” We went our separate ways. I looked back, but he was gone. But not from my memory; there he would always be.

As I drove off, the thought hit me of what this man had done for me. For having helped him, I felt uplifted and even joyous. He was making a living by making people like me feel better for having helped him. Then I came to see that I had been sitting on a knife’s edge all during the Reunion. At any time, I might have left. Had I not encountered the man I had helped, I might well have gone back to the room, collected my things in the suitcase and left. We were breaking up in the morning, anyway. Why not save myself a further night of grief? Get it over with.

At the dinner that night, the chatter around the table flew as on an angel’s wings.

I couldn’t say enough or listen to others hard enough to satisfy myself. “How I love these people,” I thought. When I returned to my room, I collapsed in exhaustion and fell into a deep, sound sleep until morning.

After a somewhat somber breakfast at the motel, the time to break up had come. I almost wept as I bid them goodbye, one by one, reassuring them that we would see each other again at the reunion the following year. Then, I left, too. It had been a time not to be forgotten, a time I would remember for its love, not its angst.

~Pat O’Regan